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It was another step in destroying Dravenmoor’s mistrust for melding craft.
At my side Gunter clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Plan?”
In the two weeks since the Dark Watch discovered us, Gunter had studied hand speak under Lyra and Emi’s tutelage, but he still could pick out only a few basic terms.
I took a knee and dragged a finger in the soil, drawing out the primitive idea. I formed a circle, pointed at each flank of the Dark Watch to aim at their own side of the Stav Guard. The marks and the timing I repeated until captains nodded and passed down the word to their units.
I directed (with Gunter’s broken translation) a Dark Watch captain to guide the archers on their shots.
“Let Lyra do as she does,” Gunter called after him. “Those bones will find their marks, I’ve seen it done.”
On the final directive, I cut a line down the center. A way to split their ranks, to force them into our net.
Gunter rubbed a hand on the back of his neck. “How do we break the wall through the middle? There are Stav archers. They’ll take us out.”
I brushed soil from my fingers and stood. With my thumb I traced the edge of the scar on my throat.
Gunter’s mouth split in a cruel grin. “Well, this is the newest favored battle plan. At your word, Death Bringer.”
I faced the army below.
One of the captains lowered his shield. “Sentry Ashwood. How good to see you. Jorvandal sends their best wishes for your union with the melder.”
They knew Lyra was my wife? How?
“Roark.” Gunter drew me back to the moment. “This begins a fight for something bigger than Jorvandal and Dravenmoor. Remember that. You are fighting for your freedom, for hers. They are not your folk anymore.”
A muscle throbbed in my jaw against the clench of my teeth.
“Ashwood.” The captain shouted again. “A gift for you and your bride from the House of Oleg at Stonegate. You and the melder slaughtered our king, so the royal house felt you both deserved much the same.”
From behind the wall of shields the Stav tossed a woman. She landed on her knees, sobbing and clutching a totem tied around her neck with a strip of leather. I knew her but did not recall her face until a bony elder was tossed beside her.
Blood stained his brow, and his silver beard was soaked in it. Injured as he was, the man went to the trembling woman and held her against his thin chest as she sobbed her frantic prayers to the gods.
They were from Skalfirth. I’d seen them the night I took Lyra. They served in Jarl Jakobson’s household.
They’d raised Lyra and Darkwin.
I lifted my ax and pointed the blade at the captain, a silent threat. He knew what would become of him should he take the next step. He’d seen me deliver much the same to ravagers and traitors time and again.
The captain used his shield to strike the man’s skull. A wet scream ripped from the woman’s throat. She wailed and padded at the old man’s head, holding her palms over the gash.
When two Stav lowered their shields, blades in hand, I made a frenzied gesture to the Draven archers to take aim. Lyra would not lose another soul she held dear. Men I once led stood down there. Most likely craved a chance to cut the throat of the traitorous Sentry.
Remnants of guilt were there…for a moment.
Guilt quickly slid into bloodlust, remorse faded to enmity. Frigid ribbons of night sliced across my throat, my shoulders, my middle. From my hands emerged another set. One step, and the shadowed form of every cruel desire I kept in my soul took shape, one pace ahead of me.
The captain faltered. “You’re nothing but a demon, not even mortal. Are you from the molten hell, Ashwood? We Stav always thought as much because of your dirty Draven blood, but we simply couldn’t say it to your face.”
Darkness reached for the bastard, faster, desperate, yet it was still too slow.
The captain gave his signal. Swords from the two Stav standing over the prisoners dropped on the throats of the man and woman. Her sobs bled into gasps and choking coughs. Until both fell back on the ground.
Dead.
In the woman’s hand the totem remained clasped tightly, a plea for protection, for safety.
